


Sonata

by kamextoise



Series: Music and Manuscripts [1]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist, Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-22 01:05:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9575054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kamextoise/pseuds/kamextoise
Summary: Kimbley wonders if that’s all Archer will play. A few moody chords, a half-hearted attempt at a warmup at three in the morning that still manages to be better than anything he’s ever attempted.





	

When he wakes, there’s light from the foyer spilling into the hall. Ever since he was in prison, Kimbley has been the sort to sleep easily, whenever he needs it. When he doesn’t need it. But he’s wide awake now, and the light is a reminder that no matter how dark the room is, it’s _not_ prison. He’s not there now, he will never go back there.

That’s a promise to himself he’s intending to keep.

Maybe it’s not a particularly realistic goal. It’s not like Kimbley is one to follow the rules. Or follow orders he doesn’t like. Or listen to people who piss him off. His long-term chances aren’t good, but to be honest, that isn’t something that’s bothered him. Spending most of his twenties locked away gave him plenty of time to accept his own mortality, and the fact that he’s likely not going to live to see his thirtieth birthday. Someone else might find such a thought dark, but to Kimbley it has always been a form of comfort.

There’s sound coming from the foyer now, and Kimbley peers in curiously.

Archer is hunched over the grand piano in the middle of the room, and in his time living in Archer’s house like a guest who had been invited over for a night of drinking and then never left, Kimbley’s never seen the other man sitting at the piano. He’s seen him clean it obsessively, but then, Archer cleans his entire house like he’s afraid the smallest bit of grime might kill him.

The sound is slow and drumming, moody. Hell, Archer can play well. Kimbley hadn’t thought of it before—this ambitious man who wants Kimbley back in the military to suit his own purposes having a _hobby._ He’s only ever seen the man as a lieutenant colonel focused on promotions. 

For a moment, Kimbley wonders if that’s all Archer will play. A few moody chords, a half-hearted attempt at a warmup at three in the morning that still manages to be better than anything he’s ever attempted. It’s the sort of thing that makes a guy wonder whether the man he’s entrusted his life to has some sort of secret behind the well-groomed, rich boy exterior. There’s sheet music on the stand, but he can’t see what it is from here. Not that he can read a damn note, himself.

Archer drums a few more chords, one-handed, the kind that make immaculately dressed women in opera houses weep melodramatically. Kimbley considers saying something. It might be a little funny, getting Archer to jump out of his skin. He doesn’t, watching the man curiously. Even on his own, Archer acts ridiculously serious, arranging the sheet music in front of him carefully, even though it already looked perfectly straight. Maybe Archer isn’t going to play at all, instead stare at the piano, hoping it’ll play itself.

If that happens, he might spot Kimbley, and he’s not so sure he wants that to happen. Archer’s testy on a good day, and Kimbley’s already under lockdown during the day as it is. _You haven’t been officially pardoned yet. I can’t afford to have people seeing you._

Archer pauses, hands hovering over the keys. And then, he starts. Kimbley might not know much about music, but, well, it’s pretty damn good, as far as he’s concerned. He recognizes the melody. It’s one he used to hum to himself, in the darkness, to stave off the blistering loneliness. He leans up against the doorway, eyes falling shut. Archer might not be a maestro, but the song is familiar. Slow and moody, it’s not the sort of thing he would have expected Archer to enjoy. No, he would have guessed the man preferred the loud, boisterous overtures, not somber sonatas.  


It’s comforting, in an odd way. Something they have in common. There’s _sound_ here. It’s not like he’s alone with nothing but his own thoughts in the dark. The silence used to be frightening; deafening. It’s not like that, now. It’s not him alone in the dark, waiting to die. It’s not something he’d confess to Archer. He doesn’t know how the man would handle it—not when Kimbley is supposed to be his ticket to glory. The song ends with a dreary decrescendo, and Kimbley opens his eyes, still propped up against the wall.

Archer sits at the bench, moving as though he’s about to play something else, or maybe just to shut the cover of the keys.

He straightens up abruptly, finally noticing Kimbley standing in the threshold, though he doesn’t offer much more than a quick glance before he’s staring back at the music sheet like it might save him. His shoulders are tense in that way that indicates he’s embarrassed, but too proud to admit it. After a long moment, Archer acknowledges him, but he’s still staring at the piano, refusing to turn around. “Is there something you need, Kimbley?”

There’s probably a right answer, somewhere. The opportunity to answer it seriously; to say nothing in particular, making idle chat. Maybe nag Archer about what sort of food is in the house that isn’t something that requires needing to use the stove. He decides on flippant.

“Pretty song. Didn’t take you for a fan of it. What key’s it in, C minor?”

“C-sharp. It’s C-sharp minor.” It’s hard to tell with Archer; the inflections of his voice are so subtle, but Kimbley feels like the man is pleased. At the very least, his shoulders have drooped, and his back is no longer rigid as a flag pole.

Kimbley saunters over to him, his hands in his pockets, wearing nothing but a pair of sleep shorts. “I didn’t know you played any instruments,” he says.

“There’s plenty you don’t know about me,” Archer says, and now that Kimbley’s close, he can see the man’s pale face is tinged with red.

“You ever play the other movements?”

Archer looks up at that, looking genuinely surprised that Kimbley knows anything at all about music. Kimbley takes the opportunity to sit next to Archer on the bench, a little too close now. It’s not exactly meant for more than one person to sit on it, but Archer doesn’t look like he’s about to tell Kimbley off. The red has moved, faintly, into his ears. He knows it isn’t a look of annoyance. It’s the look of a man who plans every moment of his day down to the second finding his schedule not going according to plan. 

His knee brushes against Archer’s, and for a moment he thinks the man might bolt, but instead, Archer takes a moment to compose himself. His face is still red. “Sometimes,” he says.

Kimbley leans forward, taps a couple treble clef notes on the piano just to have something to do. “Show me.”

Archer breathes in, like he’s not used to people asking. He probably isn’t, he’s not the sort of person to want an audience. He’s silent for a long moment, but Kimbley knows him well enough to know the silence isn’t a no. “All right,” he says. 

He turns the page.


End file.
